


Of Red-Eye Flights and Extra Flour

by traceylane



Category: The Maze Runner (2014), The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: AU, Christmas fic, M/M, they literally have no idea what theyre doing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-06
Updated: 2014-12-06
Packaged: 2018-02-28 10:33:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2729123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/traceylane/pseuds/traceylane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For some reason Thomas calls up Newt in the middle of the night to bake Christmas cookies, and for some reason Newt says yes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Red-Eye Flights and Extra Flour

  
Newt scrambles to find his shoes when the texts come.  
  
 _[Thomas]: HELP_  
 _[Thomas]: EMERGENCY_  
 _[Thomas]: COME NOW_  
  
Sure, it’s Christmas Eve, and sure, his mother would gut him if she knew he was going out this late, but Newt elects to ignore that due to the possibility that Thomas is currently bleeding out on his kitchen floor.  
  
Newt tiptoes downstairs and out the back door to the yard, where he takes the chains off his bike and wheels it out to the front sidewalk. He starts down his street, each second growing more and more worried as to what emergency Thomas could have gotten himself into at 11:56 PM on December fucking 24th.   
  
He could be getting arrested. He could be getting stabbed. He could have gotten himself buried alive, though Newt isn’t exactly sure  _how,_  but this is  _Thomas_ , and with Thomas there was always a way.  
  
So Newt pedals faster.  
  
When he comes up to Thomas’ house, he breathes just a little easier when he sees it isn’t on fire.  
  
He drops his bike on the front lawn and runs up to the front door. He hammers on the wood, frantic, and shouts.  
  
“Tommy! I’m here! THOMA—”  
  
…And then, for some reason, there’s a hand over his mouth and he’s being laughed at.  
  
“Jesus, stop yelling, dude!”  
  
Then he’s being pulled into the house by his wrists, and Thomas turns them around so he can lean against the door after he’s shut it behind him.  
  
“God, hopefully no one calls the cops on us,” he says, grinning.  
  
Newt, on the other hand, looks understandably pissed. “Thomas, what the hell is going on?”  
  
Thomas’ smile fades a bit. “I, um, need your help.”  
  
Newt sticks out his phone, open to Thomas’ texts. “Yeah, I guessed!”   
  
“Well, I…” Thomas says, trailing off when he sees that perhaps his messages had been a tiny bit misleading.  
  
Newt sighs. “Tommy, it’s almost one in the morning. I nearly got run over on the way here and honestly I’m a little sad I didn’t because my mum is going to murder me when she finds out I left. So please,” he says, dragging a hand down his face, “just tell me what’s wrong so I can deal with it and go home.”  
  
Thomas looks uncomfortable.  
  
“I’m, um…” He looks down at his socks, pulls at the hem of his t-shirt. “I’m baking Christmas cookies.”

  
  
Newt blinks.  
  
“I’m leaving.”  
  
Thomas moves to stop him, “Newt—”  
  
But his friend—though apparently not at the moment—pushes past and reaches for the door.  
  
Newt’s got his fingers around the door handle when he feels someone’s arms around his waist, trying to pull him back.  
  
“Newt, please,” Thomas pleads into Newt’s shoulder, “Let me—I have  _context_ —”  
  
“I thought you were  _dead_ , you buggin’ dumbass.”  
  
Thomas presses closer when he sees Newt push the door handle halfway down. “I know, I’m sorry, but I really needed your help—”  
  
“I’m either going home or strangling you in the next three minutes, Tommy. Take your pick.”  
  
Thomas sighs, and Newt shivers involuntarily when Thomas’ breath hits his ear and the back of his neck—both of which are growing redder as Thomas holds on tighter.  
  
“Newt, come on.”  
  
“Fine. Explain why I shouldn’t kill you.”  
  
And (sadly) Thomas pushes himself away so they’re facing each other, his hands heavy on Newt’s shoulders.  
  
“Okay, so, look. Cookies are something we do every year, right? Me and Chuck, it’s, like, our thing.”  
  
“Stop trying to make this cute.”   
  
Thomas’ smile makes another short appearance. “I’m not. But anyway—he and our parents aren’t home yet, but I told him I’d do them anyway, right? So they’d be here for, you know, Santa—”  
  
Newt cuts him off, “Santa’s not real, Tommy.”  
  
And Thomas looks at him like he’s just suggested they blow up the state.  
  
“ _Tradition_ , Newt.”  
  
Newt presses his fingers to his forehead, exasperated, “Fine, okay, cookies for Santa. So wha—wait.”  
  
His eyes suddenly narrow at Thomas, who looks back at him blankly.  
  
“Thomas, did you just say your parents and brother aren’t ‘here yet’?”  
  
“Uh, yeah, they’ve been visiting other family, and their flight got delayed, so they probably won’t be here until ten or so in the morning, maybe eleven. Why?”  
  
Newt’s known Thomas for a while, but there are still plenty of things about him he just doesn’t understand. His knack for jigsaw puzzles, for example, or why he thinks he can dance, or if he really still believes in Santa Clause, or, in this particular instance, how at times he can so spectacularly miss the point.

"What d’you mean ‘ _Why’_? Do you mean to tell me you spent Christmas Eve  _alone_?”   
  
Thomas’ face lights up with understanding, and then he looks away ashamedly. He scratches his neck, racking his brain for anything that would count against him being alone on Christmas.  
  
“Well, I talked to my parents over the phone around nine, and Teresa and Minho are out of town but they’ve been, you know, checking in—” He looks at Newt with a nervous laugh, “And  _you’re_  here now, so, technically… No?”  
  
“Tommy.”  
  
“Okay, yes, kind of. It’s not a big deal, though.”  
  
“‘ _Not a big deal’?_ " Newt wishes he had a neon sign spelling out exactly how wrong it was that his best friend had spent his favorite holiday waiting for a delayed flight.  
  
“Anyway,” Thomas continues, ignoring him. “They’re not here, and I said I would do it, and I forgot up until now, and yes, I know that was stupid, and I don’t really know what I’m doing, but if I don’t do it, I’m going to have a very sad brother for Christmas so will you help me  _please_?”  
  
Like in many instances, Thomas tries to fit in as many words as possible before the other person can register what he’s saying and react accordingly—that is, yell at him.  
  
“Tommy, you woke me up in the middle of the night to make bloody Christmas cookies after you spent the whole day in your house  _alone_?”   
  
“Yes, I—”  
  
“By yourself. With nobody else.”

  
“That’s what ‘alone’ means, yeah—”  
  
“THOMAS.”  
  
Thomas sighs. “Newt, I’m begging here. Do you remember the last time I tried to bake something unsupervised?”

"Reminding me of the things you’ve set fire to? Probably not in your best interests right now, Tommy.”  
  
“Newt!”  
  
And Newt is exhausted. He wants to be in bed and he wants to dream about plums or mice or however the hell the song goes and he wants to sleep until his sister inevitably shakes him awake the minute the sun rises because shit,  _it’s_   _Christmas Day, Newt!_

But he is, regrettably, a good friend who frankly doesn’t want this house to be as empty as it was before he had arrived for any longer than it has to, and Thomas, just as regrettably, has big, bright, fucking puppy dog eyes.  
  
So Newt rolls up his sleeves and shakes his head like he’s about to walk into a hurricane rather than the kitchen.  
  
“Fine. Let’s bake some goddamn cookies.”

—

—

“You’re making a mess!”

Thomas yells back over the loud whirring of their stand mixer, “Oh,  _I’m_  sorry, I guess I forgot we’re filming for the fucking Food Network!”

Newt laughs with his face in his hands. “This is a disaster.”

“No, it’s efficient—here, put the eggs in.”

“You’re not even gonna turn it off?”

“ _Efficiency_ , Newt!”

Newt stands back as he cracks the eggs into the bowl, hoping they don’t jump right back out.

“Cool, cool,” Thomas says, though Newt isn’t so sure. “Put in the flour now.”

Newt grabs the bowl and pauses in front of the counter. “Okay, but I think you’re supposed to slow down the mixer, not speed it up.”

Thomas sighs. “Look, dude, I’ve been doing some research since Brenda’s birthday—”

“Oh, have you now? Since the Cake Incident?”

“—Yes, I  _have_ , actually, and I wish you’d all stop referring to it like that, it’s wasn’t the apocalypse or anything—”

“Sure felt like it at the time—”

“I’ve been doing some research,” Thomas shouts again as the mixer vibrates under his hand, “and I’ve discovered that the granules, uh, integrate themselves more completely, if, you know, the speed is higher.”

“The granules,” Newt repeats.

“Look, it’s faster, so just put in the flour, would you?”

Forty seconds later, they, and probably the rest of the kitchen, are covered in a none-too-thin layer of flour.

“Research, my ass,” Newt says, trying to speak while keeping as much of it out of his mouth as possible.

Thomas wipes at his face, and then brushes his fingertips against Newt’s eyes so he can open them. “You believed me, though, so technically, you’re also to blame.”

“You know what, Tommy? You’re right. We’re both idiots. And we’re mixing the rest by hand.”  
—

—

The dough is chilling in the fridge, and Thomas had insisted they make frosting.

"Hey—What’d you end up eating for dinner?" Newt asks, trying to sound casual while conducting an investigation on Thomas’ Lonely Christmas Eve and peering into one of the kitchen cabinets that he thinks should have powdered sugar in it, somewhere.

"Um, I made… popcorn," Thomas recalls, taking whipping cream from the fridge and failing to notice how Newt visibly cringes at the response, "And I found those marshmallows we bought for the bonfire."  
  
“Tommy, that was months ago.”

Thomas shrugs, and Newt could just cry.

“How about you?”

“Well, we didn’t have popcorn, I’ll tell you that.”

Thomas looks at him, setting down a glass bowl and taking the powdered sugar out from the one cabinet Newt’s yet to open. Newt snatches it from him and starts pouring.

“I thought you were done being mad at me.”

“I never said I wasn’t.”

Thomas presses, “Is this about the whisk? Because that wouldn’t have happened if—”

"No, you idiot,” Newt says, angrily spinning the bowl while he mixes, “It’s because it’s bloody Christmas Eve and you ate popcorn and marshmallows for dinner instead of actual food with  _me_.”  
  
Thomas blinks, taken aback, and it gives Newt the chance to catch himself and amend, “I mean, with your family. Or, you know,” he shrugs, “My family. We don’t live too far from here, y’know.”  
  
“…Well, I thought you all would’ve minded.”

Newt rolls his eyes. “Minded? My mother loves you. My sister loves you.”

“ _You_  love me?”

Thomas is kidding, at least halfway, but Newt gives him a hard look.

“Yeah. I do.”

He looks away as Thomas’ grin falls from his face. “Anyway, I’m just saying, a simple phone call would’ve been nice.”

Thomas is quiet for a while. “Well, thanks,” he says finally, a little dazed.

“One phone call,” Newt says again, shoving the bowl into Thomas’ arms and moving to retrieve the dough from the fridge.

“But you’re welcome.”

—

—

The cookies are an abomination.

“They’re so…”

“Crumbly?” Thomas suggests before taking a tiny bite and spitting it out into the sink.

“Disgusting,” Newt clarifies.

“Yeah, I got that,” Thomas says, grimacing. “What did we do?”

“They’re so salty, but I’m sure I added as much as I was supposed to—”

“Wait,  _you_  put in the salt?  _I_  put in the salt.”

“Oh, my God,” Newt says, running a hand down his face. Then he looks confused, “But that’s only two tablespoons, it couldn’t have made that much of a difference—”

He stops, seeing that Thomas has gone a little pale.

“Uh, tablespoons, did you say?”

Newt’s jaw drops. “Oh, my  _God!_ ”

Thomas coughs nervously—the ingredient list was written in a very small font, it wasn’t his fault, honestly—and continues, “They’re really dry, too, so that can’t have been the only thing.”

Newt thinks, then looks sheepish. “Well, after the accident with the mixer I might have added extra flour to make up for what flew out of the bowl.”

“Like how much extra?”

“A cup? Maybe a cup and a half—I don’t know, I just kind of, er… threw it in.”

“Holy shit,” Thomas says, putting his hand on his forehead.

And they look down at the “cookies”, a cruel, barely edible reminder of their incompetence.

And they look at each other.

And they burst out laughing.

Newt is the first to recover, though he’s still struggling to breathe. “Holy fuck, what are we even doing here? How did this happen?”

Thomas shakes his head, wiping tears from his eyes. “It’s late, we can’t blame ourselves.”

Newt looks at the clock, and he’s surprised, although he shouldn’t be, that it’s a couple hours past midnight.

“I just can’t believe it—you dragged me out of bed so we could make these and they’re—”

“They’re horrifying,” Thomas finishes, and Newt laughs again before seeing that Thomas is quiet, pensive as he stares at the kitchen tile.

 “What? Do you feel bad about Chuck? I think he’ll understand if—”

Thomas cuts him off.

"Can I be honest with you?"

Newt raises an eyebrow. “Might as well. It’s 2AM.”

"I actually… I couldn’t have cared less about these cookies."

"…I’ll murder you."

Thomas laughs. “No, that’s not what I meant—I mean, they were kind of… they were just an excuse.”

“An excuse? To what?”

“To see you.”

Newt stares at him, and Thomas continues, clearing his throat, “I don’t know, you were right. I was kind of sad about, you know, my parents not being here. And all our friends being out of town. And you, you were with your family the whole night, so…”

Newt sighs, “Jesus, Tommy.”

Thomas crosses his arms. “I just missed everyone. I missed… You.”

Newt comes closer, leans on the counter next to him and slings his arm around his neck.

“You’re an idiot.”

“Wow.”

“And,” Newt says, “I missed you, too.”

And he pulls Thomas towards him, presses his lips to Thomas’ cold cheek, and pulls away just as the blush creeps up Thomas’ face.

“Merry Christmas. And you know,” he says, “You don’t need to make up an excuse to see me.”

“I do at 2AM.”

Newt laughs again.

—  
—

In the end they fall asleep on his couch, a mess of limbs under the throw blanket Thomas’ mother usually keeps next to the fireplace, and Newt wakes up with the start just as the sun is peeking over the roof of the house across the street.

“Shit.”

“S’wrong?” Thomas slurs as he blinks awake, although much less so than Newt.

“Nothing—just that you’ll have to get your suit dry cleaned for my funeral.”

“Don’t have a suit,” Thomas answers drowsily.

Newt rolls his eyes, but runs a hand through Thomas’ hair before heading for the door.

Thomas follows him up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes just as Newt is about to run out.

“…What if I came with you?”

“What?” Newt asks, trying to get his shoes on.

“Your mom loves me, right? She won’t kill you if I’m there.”

“You’re serious?”

“My parents’ plane isn’t set to land for another—” Thomas checks his watch, “—Three hours. That’s a good amount of time for her to cool off, right?”

Newt considers. “And it  _is_  Christmas,” he says slowly.

“Should I grab the frosting?”

Newt nods. “We can eat it on the way.”

“Good call.”

—

—

 (Half an hour later, they’re both still alive. Thomas had been right—they were all better off together.)

 

**Author's Note:**

> au taken from Lyca’s [christmas au list](http://newtmos.tumblr.com/post/103120417269/)
> 
> K listen whenever I see cute prompts for the tmr boys I always have to think “how could these assholes ever end up in these adorable situations”
> 
> Conclusion: I have a strong affinity towards Thomas taking part in hella antics and Newt being his reluctant accomplice
> 
> ((also isn’t Thomas good at bullshitting, I love it))
> 
> ((ALSO THIS TURNED OUT SUPER LONG OH MY GOD PLEASE END ME, THROW ALL THE ROCKS YOU CAN FIND))
> 
> (((thank you for reading, and happy holidays!!! ^^ ^^ prompts to my [tumblr](amazerunners.tumblr.com/ask) if you'd like-- i'll probably only be doing Christmas through January lmao)))


End file.
